


a whole night and day

by kathkin



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Fluff, Hurt Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-21
Updated: 2020-08-21
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:22:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26027902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kathkin/pseuds/kathkin
Summary: He didn’t remember when last someone had come looking for him when he didn’t return from a hunt. He didn’t remember when last he’d been injured and woken afterwards warm and safe.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 45
Kudos: 879





	a whole night and day

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [orions-probe](https://orions-probe.tumblr.com/) for the following prompts from [this two-part drabble game](https://penny-anna.tumblr.com/post/626068295886438400/two-part-drabble-game):
> 
> _14\. hurt/comfort_
> 
> _29\. “I’m never letting you out of my sight ever again.”_

It hurt, when he breathed in, and when he breathed out. But the pain was less than it had been. He remembered it all-consuming, a fire in his chest radiating out from a single point of agony. It was bearable now. He could breathe through it.

He breathed through it.

He had won the fight. He remembered killing the beast, the relief of that small victory. He remembered being barely able to draw breath. Kneeling on the forest floor, meaning to meditate, to heal himself; lapsing instead into darkness.

But he wasn’t in the forest. The smell of the air was wrong. The air smelled of woodsmoke and herbs and cooking. From the distant creak of footsteps on floorboards he knew he was indoors. Someone had moved him. He had been taken somewhere.

A hand touched his forehead and he flinched, a low growl escaping him.

“Shh,” said a voice. “Shh, I’m sorry. It’s me. It’s just me.”

He knew that voice. Part of him relaxed.

Jaskier touched him again, touched his cheek. “Are you awake?”

He forced his eyes open. The light in the room was low, a single candle burning beside the bed. It was night. He didn’t know if it was the same night. The bard was sitting on a stool beside him. There was blood on his clothes – blood in his hair – but he wasn’t hurt.

“Jaskier,” he said.

“Shhh.” Jaskier stroked his hair away from his face and Geralt found he didn’t have the strength to object. “I don’t know if you should be talking. The healer said your lung was punctured.”

“It’ll heal.” He tried to sit and Jaskier’s hand flew to his shoulder, trying vainly to hold him down. He needn’t have bothered. The pain in his chest was still too severe.

“Are you thirsty?” said Jaskier. “You must be thirsty.”

His throat was dry. It was hard to swallow. He managed a few mouthfuls of water from a cup in Jaskier’s hand.

He could speak easier. “Where am I?”

“The healer’s house.”

“How did I get here?”

“With great difficulty.” The corner of Jaskier’s mouth turned up, not quite a smile, and for the first time Geralt noticed just how haggard he looked, just how tired. “You’re heavy.”

“Why did you come after me?” said Geralt. “I told you to stay in the village.”

“You were gone too long.”

“You could have been hurt.”

“You were gone too long.” Jaskier’s hand was still on Geralt’s shoulder. He didn’t mind it. The contact, the pressure, it was steadying. “I’m never letting you out of my sight ever again,” Jaskier said. “You bled so much – I, I thought –” Whatever he had thought, he bit back. “You slept a whole night and day. The healer patched you up. She said she didn’t know what to do with you.”

Geralt grunted. Of course she wouldn’t. He’d been stabbed clean through the lung. A human would have died.

Jaskier’s hand drifted from his shoulder to his cheek. “You’re sure it’ll heal?” His voice shook.

“I’ve had worse.”

“That’s not very reassuring.” He began to stroke Geralt’s hair, absently, as if it were the natural thing to do.

He had been hurt worse. He had dragged himself out of the wilderness on his hands and knees in search of help. He had treated his own wounds, painfully, with the supplies he had to hand. He had sat in the wilds with a broken leg, waiting for it to heal enough that he could walk.

He didn’t remember when last someone had come looking for him when he didn’t return from a hunt. He didn’t remember when last he’d been injured and woken afterwards warm and safe. When last someone had poured water into his mouth when he couldn’t drink unaided. When someone had stroked his hair.

That was his blood, that was on Jaskier’s clothes and in his hair. He hadn’t changed or washed it away. Looking at the shadows under his eyes Geralt realised he hadn’t slept.

He shut his eyes, and for the first time in weeks – months, perhaps – he let himself relax.

“Are you going back to sleep?” said Jaskier.

He breathed out. “Mm.”

“You were all alone.” Jaskier was still stroking his hair, slowly, almost tenderly. “I shouldn’t have let you go out there alone.”

That was nonsense. He fought alone. That was what witchers did. But he didn’t have the strength to argue. “Mmm.”

“You just rest now,” said Jaskier. “You rest.”


End file.
